Delivery for Mr Holmes
by thomasharker
Summary: Sherlock is bored, and left alone with a mail order catalogue. John is not impressed. Oneshot


**Author's Note: **I don't own any of these characters, despite my best efforts. Enjoy. From an idea by PB Headless.

* * *

There was a knock at the door and Mrs Hudson hurried in, a look of anxiety on her face. "Sherlock!" she called, "There's a delivery here for you!"

John looked up, alarmed. What was it this time? What if Moriarty had sent them a bomb or something? Or what if...

"John, can you go and sign for it, please?" Sherlock called back from the kitchen, where he appeared to be stapling bread together. "It's in a blue van. The driver's wearing a hat, I think. Grey."

John sighed and switched off the TV. Making his way downstairs, he glanced out of the window and saw that there was indeed a blue van parked outside, in between a black Bentley and an empty taxi. He walked up to it, and knocked on the window. The driver, a young man in a grey baseball cap, wound down the window and passed him a clipboard to sign.

"Aren't you meant to carry the stuff inside?" John asked, handing it back, but the driver simply shrugged and wound the window up again. John walked round to the back and opened the door. Inside were at least a hundred objects of varying shapes and sizes, all packed in brown cardboard and wrapped in cellophane. The driver got out of the van, obviously curious enough to find out what all of this was for. John picked up the nearest package and read the label. "A karaoke machine?" he laughed, "Sherlock, you idiot..."

The driver looked over his shoulder. "The other vans should be here soon," he said.

"... _Other_ vans? There's more?"

"Yep. Three, I think."

John put the karaoke machine back in the van and hurried inside again. "_Sherlock_!" He yelled as soon as he reached the top of the stairs. "What the _hell_ were you thinking!"

Sherlock looked up from the bread and staples. "But... I was bored. And there were no crimes to solve, and you said I wasn't allowed to shoot the wall any more."

"Well, no. You went all the way through and into my bedroom. But anyway, Sherlock. You appear to have ordered the entire contents of the Argos catalogue."

"Yes?"

John's eyes widened. "And that's fine for you, is it? You do realise how little money we have? I'm not paid that much at the hospital and you spend most of your time doing... Actually, what _are_ you doing?"

"I'm stapling bread together."

John stared at him, then shook his head disbelievingly and continued. "We just don't have the money for you to spend on whatever you like! What if something goes wrong and we need to pay for it? We already owe Mrs Hudson about four months' rent, and- _don't point that thing at me_- and if Moriarty tries anything again we need to be prepared rather than, for example, playing on an indoor trampoline. Sherlock, are you even listening?"

"Yes, of course. Not necessarily to you, but most definitely listening. You do know Mycroft is waiting outside, don't you?"

"Well of course I- what?"

"I think you should go and see what he wants."

"Right. Fine. Yes, of course. I'll go outside and talk to your brother, and try to find some way to explain why you've ordered three whole _vans_ full of rubbish. Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged, and picked up a magazine. John stormed out.

"Ah, John. How much did it cost?" Mycroft said silkily by way of a greeting.

"What?"

"The order Sherlock made this morning. I take the liberty of monitoring any deliveries made to this address."

"Oh, right. No, I'm not sure. What did you want, anyway?"

"Oh, I just popped in for a chat," Mycroft said in a voice that suggested anything but, "I just thought I ought to check up on my little brother from time to time."

John sighed. "Well, now isn't a very good time, sorry. He's very busy."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really. Checking the density of toast, is he?"

Comprehension dawned on John's face. "Bread, actually."

"No, it _is_ toast," Mycroft replied, but said no more and got back into his Bentley. Another blue van pulled up beside the first, and the driver got out and passed John another clipboard. Mycroft stuck his head out of the car window. "Do give my regards to my brother, won't you? And make sure he doesn't hurt himself _too_ badly."

John left the two vans outside and hurried back up to Sherlock. Sure enough, he had put the stapled bread into the toaster and was watching them with curiosity. "Right, Sherlock. If you've insisted on buying all this stuff, you can at least help me carry it in."

Sherlock pressed the lever on the toaster and the now charred bread shot out of the slot in the top. He caught them, pulled a tape measure out of his pocket, and jotted down some dimensions in a notebook next to him. The staples appeared to be glowing red-hot. "I'm a bit busy at the moment," he replied. There was a knock at the door.

"Coming!" John called, giving Sherlock one last scathing look and hurrying over to answer it. Sherlock's eyes widened.

"Don't. Answer. It," He mouthed slowly, before picking up the staple gun from the table and creeping closer to the door. He motioned for John to open it. As soon as the door opened, he leapt through it, brandishing the staple gun at a young man in a grey baseball cap.

"Are you going to collect your stuff or what? I've been waiting here for ages."

Sherlock put the gun down, and followed him and John down the stairs and out of the door. Between the three of them and the other driver they soon had the contents of the first van piled in the hallway off 221 Baker Street. Mycroft watched in amusement from his Bentley, now parked a short distance away.

"Honestly, Sherlock," John muttered as he passed him a set of hair straighteners and a shredder, "Why? Is normal life so boring that you have to buy all this stuff to make your life more interesting?"

"Of course. There are no good crimes to solve, no mysteries to unravel, no murders to bring to light."

"Yeah, I wish there was another attempt on our lives," said John sarcastically, but Sherlock must have missed the implication, as he nodded in agreement. John looked at the package in his hands and, realising it was a Barbie doll, finally snapped. "Right, Sherlock, that's it. You're paying for all of this- just you. I'm not going to bail you out this time. The money I earn is going to go on me and Sarah. Deal with this yourself."

"I used your bank details," said Sherlock, barely audibly.

"You _what?_"

"You need to be more sensible with your passwords in future. I mean, Canterbury? There's only _so_ many towns with cathedrals in, it didn't take me long to work out which one you'd go for."

John looked around, half expecting a TV presenter with a hidden camera to leap out of a bush and shout 'Surprise!' "How the _hell_ would you know it was anything to do with cathedrals? That wasn't even why I chose it!"

"Not consciously, at least," Sherlock replied. "I mean, look at you. It was inevitable."

John frowned. "So all this money came out of _my_ account?" he asked, indignant.

"Yes. Sorry, I've used up all of mine."

"Just because you were bored?"

"Yes."

John was just thinking up a retort, when from a few streets away there came the unmistakeable sound of an explosion, followed by several car alarms and a number of screams. Sherlock grinned and ran towards it. John groaned. He turned to the man in the baseball cap. "Do you do refunds?"

His phone beeped. 1 new message.

Keep the karaoke machine. I've worked this one out already. SH.

John howled in frustration. In the Bentley a few metres away, Mycroft Holmes smiled.


End file.
